Many days I've known
And many more have come,
But each day that’s shone
Was drowned out by a drum.
The worldly nights you gave me
Weave eternal weeks,
And though Sunday may forgive me
Monday never speaks.
The fan stops, the room warms.
Disasters, like perfections,
Happen with majestic rarity
All the time.
What town's nearby? Where's the road?
Well, you're not so far, though it's hard to see.
You give bad directions and point at air
While I eat a Snickers by the vending machine
(act like you care, I say to me).
The nice lady's Billy boy moans
In the backseat, like his father,
Hungry and not alone.
You start the fan, unplug the phone.
Back home others switch off lights,
Careening towards declarations of "I'm bored."
Leave your message before the tone.
The soundless cities are nearing,
There is no need for hearing.
Speak what we have spoken:
There are gods, but they are broken.
The little leanings of our lords
Upon their righteous swords
Impale veins of ancient ardors
Where their foul fluid has harbored.
And this is how the blood runs
And this is why the blood runs
Upon the paths of ardor.